Designed for Death (24 page)

Trust no one. Not even your best friends.
Treasure’s then, but I had no key.

Stymied, I slumped onto Nana’s sofa, glancing around at my dismantled home, listening to the wind pick up speed. If I delayed much longer, the minute I stepped outside, I’d be blown away like a scrap of paper. It was now or never. Decision made, I grabbed my purse, dropped in the .38, pulled out the key ring and took the biggest risk of my life. I opened the door.

As if daring me to show my face, the wind nearly wrenched the door out of my hand, then wrestled me for possession of it.
Oh yeah?
A sudden burst of anger gave me the strength of a stevedore. With my hands glued to the knob, I fought the storm, pulling with every bit of energy I possessed. When the gusts veered for a split second, I yanked the door closed and twisted the key in the lock.
Ha!

My hair blowing like the palm fronds, my clothes plastered against my skin, I inched along the stone walkway to the clubroom, hanging onto the wrought iron railing for dear life. Like a greedy thief, the salt-filled air snatched at the purse slung over my shoulder, but I elbowed it close to my side. No way would I lose that picture of Jack. Or the Cobra.

At Chip and AudreyAnn’s condo, I chanced letting go of the rail, gripped their door knob and pressed the bell long and hard. No answer. Even with the blustery wind, they should have heard the bell, so they really weren’t home. When I released the knob, the wind knocked me back against the railing. Like Marco Polo adventuring across Asia, I finally made it to 101, forced my way inside and stood panting in the foyer for a moment. If this kept up much longer, I’d be built like Mike Tyson.

In the office, I tossed my purse on the cluttered desk and hurried over to the closet that held the metal box with keys to all the units. I seized the closet handle.
Oh no. Locked.

Resisting the urge to sink to the floor and cry, I dashed back to the cluttered desk where Dick had dropped his tool belt and snatched the heavy clawed hammer out of its leather sheath.

Using both hands, I swung the hammer at the closet doorknob. My reward, a small dent.
Solid brass.
Bam, bam, bam. More dents. I stepped to the left so I could strike the knob sideways. If I could snap off the handle, then, maybe…but sweating and straining, I was getting nowhere fast.

I eyeballed the door. All interior doors at Surfside were hollow core plywood. I looked around…yes!…on the floor against the wall, Dick’s electric saw.

Never having used one, I hated to set it screaming and risk losing a finger, or worse. But the saw was my only hope. I plugged the heavy orange utility cord into the wall socket and hit the on switch. The blade came shrieking to life, its whirring tip biting into the wood as if it were a candy bar. I made a vertical cut about twelve inches long, pulled the blade free, made a right angle cut, another vertical and a final horizontal slice. In a drift of sawdust, a square hunk of wood fell inside the closet. There in front of me was the lockbox.

I turned off the saw, kicked it out of the way and reached into the closet. On the front of the box, a small padlock dangled from a flange. Dick obviously didn’t want any more British Red surprises.

With the hammer gripped in both hands, I hit the padlock over and over, the noise sharper than the wind. No one came running to see what the matter was, so maybe no one else was in the building, after all. Under the relentless hammering, the padlock finally gave way. I lifted it off the flange, let it fall to the floor and opened the box with a trembling hand.

Suspended from hooks, the keys were arranged in neat rows. I grabbed the one tagged 301, stuffed it in my jeans pocket, picked up my purse and headed for the outside door.

Twenty minutes had passed. The wind would be stronger. I inhaled a deep one and went for it. The minute I stepped outside, the wind spun me across the walkway, slamming the door against the inside wall of the clubhouse. A sob bursting from my throat, I death-clutched the railing. As I watched in near despair, the door, like a live creature, banged back and forth gouging holes in the plaster wall before a vicious gust swept in behind it and banged it shut.

I swiped a shaky arm across my wet face. The war was far from over. How could I climb two flights of stairs and maneuver along the third-floor landing? Even with a white-knuckled grip on the rail, I had to fight to stay on my feet.

Sucking in gulps of salty air, I paused a moment to think. What about the elevator? Should I gamble that the electricity wouldn’t fail before it reached third? I glanced up at the walkway ceiling. Like a carnival at midnight, all the outdoor lamps were blazing.

Even at midmorning, the dark sky had the light sensors fooled.

The power’s still on. So make an executive decision.

The elevator.

One minute, maybe less, and I’d be on third. I pressed the up button, the stainless steel doors swung wide, and I stepped into what I hoped wouldn’t become my coffin.

Sultry, humid air filled with salt torn from the pounding surf filled the elevator car. I inhaled once, then, submerged in tension, didn’t breathe for the eternity it took to reach third. When the doors swept open, I fell out onto the stone landing, panting as if I’d run the Boston Marathon, but finding no oxygen in any of the gulps.

You’re hyperventilating. Stop it. Take slow, calm breaths. The air will come back to you. In. Out. In. Out. That’s better. You’re okay now.

Thirty feet off the ground, the wind blew stronger than at street level. I glanced down the length of the walkway. Unit 301 was as far as the moon. How could I ever reach it?

Crawl.

I dropped to my knees and, hands flat on the floor, purse bouncing against my hip, slowly traversed the length of the landing.

At the entrance to Treasure’s condo, I sat against the door, pulled the key out of my pocket and, reaching up, slid it into the lock. Gripping the knob, I eased into a standing position, turned the key and opened the door a crack.

Buffeted by the wind, the door flew in. I was jettisoned along with it into the foyer. Dropping my purse to the floor, I braced my heels against the tiles. Arms extended, palms splayed on the door, I leaned on it with all my strength. Inch by inch, with an agonizing slowness, the door gradually succumbed to the pressure. My heart verging on a coronary, I gave a final, desperate shove and the latch clicked into place—a music better than any platinum record I’d ever danced to.

I shot the bolt home and collapsed on the foyer floor in a crumpled, exhausted heap.

Safe. I was safe. And more alone and scared than I’d ever been in my entire life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

In the pinpricks of light filtering through the storm shutters, I spotted a Domino’s Pizza box on the kitchen counter and a few popped beer cans on the glass coffee table. A pair of dirty work boots sat beside the white couch.

I sighed and, hungry all of a sudden, got up from the foyer floor to check out the pizza box. Empty.
Figures.
I folded the box in two and dumped it in the kitchen trashcan. The boots I consigned to the laundry room next to the washer and dropped the empties into the recycle bin, wondering why I bothered. If Carolyn had her way, the whole building might have to be recycled. What a time for Dick to be gone. The worst hurricane since Katrina and he was somewhere in Texas. What if the roof blew off? What if the first floor flooded? What if—

I needed a weather update. I flung open the doors to the white armoire, the living room’s focal point.
Oh no. Empty.

Treasure hadn’t gotten around to buying a TV. But maybe Dick had brought one up from downstairs. I tore through the rooms, snapping on lights as I went. Not a television in the place.

No problem. All the local radio stations broadcast hurricane news. A radio could be as small as a handheld calculator, part of a bedside alarm clock, on a table in any room in the condo. My search turned frenzied… No radio anywhere.

A phone call, then. Simon would know the latest. I’d page him at the hospital, or call the police, or the fire department. I dashed out to the kitchen and careened to a halt. The phone jack had nothing plugged into it.
Right.
Treasure hadn’t bothered to have a phone installed. All she ever used was her cell. Even if I could find it, it would be dead by now.

Of course.
The storm had me unhinged. I ran to the foyer where I’d dropped my purse. I unzipped it and dumped everything on the floor. Billfold, key ring, pen, notebook, lip gloss, wedding picture, revolver, cell phone.
Amen.
Heart racing, I flipped open the cover…and wanted to shoot myself in the head. No power. When had I charged it last? I couldn’t remember. And what difference did
when
make? Dead was dead.

I scooped everything back into the bag, telling myself that for now I was safe enough. If the roof and windows held, I’d be all right. Two big ifs. But what had me really worried was that nobody knew where I’d gone. On the top floor of Surfside, I was alone on a mountain peak. Outside it was black as midnight. I paced back and forth, jumping at every sound.

The lights flickered, wavered, flickered again and died out. Panic welled in my throat. Swallowing hard, I forced it down and, hands raised in front of me, felt my way to the kitchen.

The day I’d looked for scissors, I’d seen a flashlight in the utility drawer. I patted around inside the drawer until my fingers touched the familiar shape. I switched on the light. In its beam, I spotted a book of matches with
The Foxy Lady
sprawled across the cover in gilt ink. The tips of the matches were gilded as well. A touch of glamour on a gruesome day. I lit the fat candle in the hurricane lamp on the counter and turned off the flashlight. I might need it later, and with my luck, the batteries were already on their deathbed.

The candle flared up bright and strong, creating a small circle of cheer in the darkened room. I stared at it, listening to the isolation. Had the wind become wilder?

Something struck the storm shutters. I jumped a foot. Another strike, louder this time. Tiles peeling off the roof? Transfixed, I didn’t move, hardly dared breathe. Nothing but the wind now.

Pow!

I screamed.

Find a safe room, the weather reports had warned. In the middle of the building away from windows and doors. Bring in a radio—ha!—cell phone—ha!—flashlight, candles, matches, water, food, blankets. Close all interior doors.

A safe room. That would be the master bath…where Treasure had been murdered. The thought of closeting myself in there with the image of her dead, bruised body made my flesh crawl.

Pow!
Another flying object hit the side of the building.

My watch said 9:45. I’d better hurry.

“You have nothing to fear but fear itself,” I muttered on my way down the hall to the master suite. It didn’t work. By the time I reached the bedroom, my heart had struck up a salsa. I ignored it, stepped into the room and gasped. Though dry now, the British Red paint was still running down the walls like wet, hot blood.

The satin coverlet had disappeared from the bed. Dick must have thrown it in the dumpster. I placed my purse and the hurricane lamp on the dresser and stripped off the ivory blanket and pillows. While I worked, I ordered my heart to calm down, stop the salsa, do a foxtrot. One, two, three, four. I drew in a deep breath, tossed the bedding on the bathroom floor and carried in the purse and hurricane lamp.

Still hungry, I scurried out to the kitchen to forage for food. All I could find were two cans of Bud and a slice of pizza shriveling on a plate in the fridge.
Marvelous.
I’d just get some water from the vanity tap.

Back in the bathroom, I locked the door behind me. In the light from the single candle, the glazed walls shimmered softly, luxuriantly; the gold-toned fixtures gleamed; the crystal sconces, romantic in the half-light, sparkled like oversized jewelry.

Braced by the pillows, I sat on the tiled floor, my back against the tub, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. With the electricity off, the AC had stopped purring out cool air, and the temperature had already begun to rise. Though my forehead felt warm and sweaty, I shivered and hugged the blanket tighter. A stress reaction. My body telling me it didn’t like what it had just been through—or what lay ahead.

I hoped everyone else in the building had reached a place of safety, that I was the only fool who’d put herself in jeopardy. Too bad I hadn’t trusted Simon enough to leave with him. If I had, he might be a comfort now. Well…Rossi would have been, for sure. My heart skipped a beat. Or would he? I blew out a disgusted sigh. What was the point in dredging up heroes? I was alone and that was that.

With nothing to do, nowhere to go, I stared at the steady candle beam. Mesmerized by its hypnotic glow, I surrendered to the isolation and my own fatigue and fell asleep, blocking out the danger and Carolyn’s voice in the wind.

I woke with a start. The candle guttering inside the hurricane lamp flickered, threatening to go out. I glanced at my watch. Twelve noon. The storm must be at its peak. The air, preternaturally still, bore its quiet like a threat. Why no wind?

I tossed off the blanket and stood. In the vanity mirror, a ghostly image stared back at me, chalk-white, even in this poor light. My hair looked like a Halloween fright wig. There might be a brush in the vanity. I opened a drawer. No brush, no comb. Just a can of Gillette shaving cream and a bottle of Old Spice After Shave. Lover Boy Dick probably thought he looked like the hunky models in the latest Old Spice ads. Not in this lifetime.

I finger-combed my hair and turned on the tap. To my relief, water poured out. I splashed my face—the cool wetness a touch of heaven—and rinsed my mouth.

When I replaced Treasure’s towels with the colored ones Dick had ordered, I’d stored her white ones in the cabinet under the sink. I reached in for one. My fingers met something too smooth to be terrycloth. I bent over and looked inside. A rolled up piece of cotton had been shoved in on top of the stack of towels. A cleaning cloth? As I pulled it out, it unfolded in my hands.